


The Best Damned RTO in the Business

by Tea-Diva (Revenant)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Post-OIF, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenant/pseuds/Tea-Diva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When Person heard through the grapevine that his unit was going back, he called Gunny Wynn at home, drunk, from Kansas City, and told him he was reenlisting. Gunny Wynn told him to shut up, go to bed and stay a civilian.” (excerpt, <i>Generation Kill</i>, by Evan Wright)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Damned RTO in the Business

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This story is a work of fiction based on the fictionalized characters from the HBO miniseries Generation Kill. I do not own the characters or the series, or the book that inspired it; nor am I profiting from this in any way. I intend no disrespect to the real men on whom the book was based.
> 
>   
>  **Read @**   
>  [LiveJournal](http://tea-diva.livejournal.com/19168.html)   
> 

Ray doesn’t come back from Iraq thinking that he’s had enough. 

Some of the guys do, they start outlining their plans before the platoon has even left Baghdad. Others don’t say a word but everyone can already tell. 

“The LT is leaving,” Walt says. They’re sitting on upturned empty ammo crates, sipping water and re-counting ammo, the Marine equivalent of a knitting circle. 

Ray turns his head so he can watch Fick striding in that laid-back college kid walk of his toward where the Humvees are staged. “He say something to you?” 

“No. But does he have to?” 

They both glance in Fick’s direction and yeah, it’s just obvious. They’re all exhausted and bruised and so spent on just about every level that it feels they’ve got nothing left, but there’s something off about the LT. Something cracked and brittle in his veneer; something that feels a little bit beaten and a lot relieved. Ray knows that Walt is right: Fick’s already decided, all that’s left is the paperwork.

Walt tips his head down, concentrates on the task at hand. “At least we’ve got Sergeant Colbert.” 

“Yeah.” Ray rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses and shakes his head. “It’ll be a cold day in Hell when the Iceman walks away from the Corps.”

“I’m leaving!” Trombley says, coming up on them and dropping onto a crate. He takes a minute to adjust his M-4 and get settled. “I’m thinking I’ll become a cop or something.”

Ray squints over the top of his sunglasses. “Shut up, Trombley.”

For the most part, Bravo 2 holds together and keeps on because the war might be over but they haven’t finished what they started. First Reconnaissance still has a job to do, and they do it. Every day. To the best of their ability. 

After weeks of operating on little to no sleep and even less food, beaten down by the stupidity in the chain of command and the persistent heavy fire from the enemy, the rest of ‘Spring Break ‘03’ feels anticlimactic. They’re cooling their heels, wanting to be useful but only rarely getting an opportunity to be so.

By the time they touch back down on American soil just about the only thing that Ray is thinking about is making good on the promise he made himself back in March when he had declared to his sergeant and War Scribe, and everyone else in Alpha: “When I get home I’m gonna eat the fuck out of my girlfriend’s pussy.” 

He does. Twice.

There’s a span of about a week where pretty much all Ray does is sleep and have sex with his girlfriend. Sometimes he eats, and sometimes his family descends on his quiet little home. Mostly, though, Ray avoids the holy hell out of his platoon. These guy’s have been living in his pocket for so long that if he sees them ever again it will be too soon.

“You’re so melodramatic,” Natalie says, kicking her feet up on their kitchen table and tilting her chair back.

“Nat,” Ray says. “Do you have any idea how fucking wonderful it is to go to the bathroom, close the door, flush the toilet when you’re done, and come out and not have someone standing right in front of you timing you on their fucking watch?”

After that first week, though, Ray feels like he’s missing pretty much all of his limbs.

He starts a sort of phone tree that he works his way through every day, but phone calls aren’t the same. For one thing, there are certain Marines who will remain nameless who have a tendency to swear at him and hang up. Actually, that’s pretty much how Brad was for the entirety of the invasion.

Still, it’s more than a relief when his leave is up and he’s back on base. It’s the best of both worlds because he sees his family and, more importantly, Natalie, but he’s got his guys around again and best of all, no one is pitching mortars at them. 

There’s late nights out at the local bars and paperwork, and then the paddle parties start up and Bravo 2 begins to shrink in size as more and more guys sign their release papers.

“You ever hear yourself talk about the Corps?” Mike asks. It’s Mike’s paddle party this time, and he’s had enough alcohol that his honey-smooth accent is slurring together just a little smoother than usual.

Ray shrugs. “What? You mean my ‘layers of retardation’ speech?”

Mike guffaws, a startlingly loud bark of sound that makes Ray wince. “Naw. I mean Iraq specifically.”

Ray rolls his eyes. “Whatever. It was a clusterfuck and, according to Reporter, we were happy little pawns marching blindly to a crack-head’s pipe, pun _totally_ intended. If we weren’t so fucking lucky, we’d be dead about ten times over. At least.”

Ray bitches. A lot. It’s kind of his thing. 

He suspects it’s why Brad sort of liked having him around, because if everyone was distracted by Ray running his mouth off, then they weren’t thinking of the inevitable death they were marching toward. Everyone has a way of keeping a level head in intense situations and mouthing-off is Ray’s.

Since he got home and detoxed from all the Rip-Fuel there’s a bitter twist to his monologues that he is only just beginning to realize.

Ray’s a Corporal. He’s under no delusions that he knows all there is to know about the situation he gets ordered to march into. He follows orders and does the best he can. It’s his sergeant’s job to give him all he needs to know to get the job done. And Ray recognizes his sergeant knows a whole hell of a lot less than his lieutenant, and so on and so on, right on up the chain of command. That’s just how the Corps works, and there are reasons for it. 

One’s that used to make sense to him.

He calls Mike just about every day, flip-flopping back and forth: “Should I?” or “Shouldn’t I?” But once the idea is planted Ray can’t help realizing all the many ways he’s just had enough. Just about the only thing keeping him in place are his guys. 

In a crowded bar, sitting in a corner booth with his feet stretched out, propped on the vinyl of the opposite seat, grasping a beer that’s slowly getting warm, Ray says, “Brad, does it ever feel like the guys who retire are letting you down?”

Brad doesn’t even hesitate. “No.”

“Wow,” Ray says, taking a swig of warm beer that makes him grimace. “Don’t, like, give it any thought or anything.”

“Not everyone can do what we do. Even fewer can do it for any extended length of time.”

Ray rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “That answer is totally PR bullshit, Brad. I'm being fucking serious, here.”

Brad raises his eyebrows. “The minute you see me standing in front of a reporter doing publicity, you have my permission to shoot me.”

“Man, you’d make just about any reporter I’ve seen on TV wet themselves,” Ray snickers, and Brad grins widely, baring his teeth. 

“Ray,” Brad says. “What is this about?”

Ray buys himself time by chugging down half his beer in a single gulp. Then he tries to hide the fact that he’s half-choking by checking out a waitress who walks by. When he’s finally able to breathe again, he says, “I think Walt is sort of pissed at the guys who’ve retired.”

It’s Brad’s turn to let the silence stretch, which is sort of a relief because it’s something that’s been genuinely bugging Ray and he’d been half-worried that Brad would just tell him to ‘shut up’. Instead, Brad says, “If you keep going when the will isn’t there, that’s damaging to everyone, especially the unit. It breaks down morale, makes the task at hand harder for everyone involved. Affects the entire platoon’s combat readiness.”

Sure, Ray can see that, he can, but that doesn’t change the fact that, “Walt’s _pissed_ , though.”

“Jesus Christ.” Brad shakes his head, clearly exasperated. “When did you become such a fucking girl?” Then the bastard flashes a pleased little smirk, his head cocking to the side as he says, "Oh, of course…"

That’s just uncalled for. “Dude, what the fuck?”

All at once, Brad's teasing demeanor sobers. “Stop whining like a bitch and think it through. It’s easier to do the job when you know the guy beside you. When you know what everyone’s capable of and how they function in adverse conditions. But there are plenty of good Marines out there who are just as capable of bringing you and everyone else home alive.”

Brad doesn’t sit him down and give him permission but to Ray, it sort of feels like that’s what that night was about. He says, ‘So long and thanks for all the fish’ to the Corps and walks out free just as soon as his contract is up. 

He proposes to Natalie and discovers that there is more chaos and retardation involved in planning a wedding than in staging an invasion of a country, and somewhere between his mother-in-law arguing with him over fucking flower arrangements, and starting crazy married civilian life, Ray learns that First Reconnaissance is shipping back out.

“I’m reenlisting,” he declares into the phone.

“Ray?” Mike asks, his voice tinny over the bad connection. “Where the fuck are you? Do you know what time it is?”

“I’m at a bar.” Ray squints at his watch but can’t be certain of the time. It was probably a rhetorical question, anyway. “I’m going back to the Marines.”

There’s a long whooshing sound over the line and Ray leans against the bar and wonders if Mike went outside or something, or if there is some weird weather over in…wherever he is. But before he can ask, Mike says, “You’re calling on your cell? Hand me over to the bartender, okay?”

Ray does as he’s told and watches with suspicious eyes as the bartender exchanges a few words before he hands the cell back. “Why did you want to speak to him?” Ray demands of Mike the moment he has his cell pressed against his ear.

“Ray, listen,” Mike says. “That bartender is gonna call you a cab. I want you to get in it and go home. Get some fucking sleep.”

“They’re going back, Mike…They’re going back there.”

There’s that weird windy sound and Ray realizes suddenly that it’s not wind at all, it’s Mike exhaling in a whoosh. “I know.”

“So. I’m reenlisting.”

“Don’t be an idiot. You’re going home, back to your wife. You’re going to go to sleep, and you’re going to stay a civilian. Are we clear?”

"But…"

"Are we clear, Corporal?"

“Yes sir,” he says, because Mike used that tone that is pure Recon Gunnery Sergeant, and Ray is incapable of disobeying a direct order. The bartender tells him that his cab is out front, and that’s the end of that.

Except not, because Ray wakes up the next day with a horrible hangover, but he remembers why he got drunk and he still feels exactly the same. “Honey?” Natalie asks, handing him a cup of coffee and frowning. “Are you okay?”

“No,” but he doesn’t elaborate.

He goes to work and can’t stop thinking about it. This is probably the sort of thing you talk to your wife about. He knows this is the sort of shit he would have talked to Natalie about even when they were just dating but deep down, he sort of understands that his desire to reenlist is maybe a little bit crazy. That maybe he’s not thinking exactly clearly just about now.

Early Saturday morning there's a knock on the door. Ray is wearing his boxer shorts and a USMC T-shirt but he goes to the door anyway because he sort of feels that anyone dumbass enough to knock this early shouldn't have any expectations of decency. He carries his first cup of coffee along with him, taking a welcoming sip that he almost spits right back out when he pulls open the door to find Nate standing on his front step. "What the fuck, LT?" he demands.

Nate's eyebrows jerk upward a bit, and there's that familiar flash of contained amusement. "Ray," he says. Then he tips his head toward the sidewalk. "Put on some clothes. Lets go for a walk."

Ray doesn't ask anything retarded, like what Nate is doing standing on his doorstep, or how he got here, or how long he's staying. He leaves the door open as invitation, turns on his heel and downs the rest of his coffee in one gulp as he goes to get changed.

When he comes back out in jeans and running shoes, in a khaki T-shirt with his name stenciled on the chest, Nate is standing in his hallway perfectly calm and entirely collected, radiating that stoicism that Ray well-remembers from the cluster-fuck that was OIF and he's so fucking grateful for it that he just walks right over and throws his arm around his former commander.

"I always knew I was secretly your favorite, LT," he says when he steps back, and Nate laughs softly, shaking his head and heads for the front door.

It occurs to Ray that part of the reason he isn't finding any of this strange is that this is just how things are: he has a problem he talks to his gunnery sergeant, who then alerts the lieutenant to keep an eye out and inevitably, if the problem doesn't get squared away, the lieutenant steps-in.

They're retired though, Nate and Mike and Ray. They're not part of the platoon anymore, there isn't any chain of command to follow. Nate's acting like this is a social call, that he was in the area for a conference and stopped over for a visit, and Ray takes him on a tour of his shitty, uninspiring neighborhood.

Eventually, the end up getting ice cream from this sketchy little corner shop that actually has the best damned home made ice cream on the planet, and Ray finds himself admitting that he still wants to reenlist. "I don't trust any other fucker to drive lead Humvee. One fucking mistake and the entire platoon is gone," he finds himself ranting. "If I hadn't been there, Alpha would have schwacked Brad and Garza in that field. Walt would have probably been killed driving through one of those shitty towns, choked to death by one of those fucking wires because the driver didn't know his ass from the steering wheel."

Now that he's started, he can't stop. He knows he's ranting, in his hand his ice cream starts to melt, neglected. He keeps thinking about Iraq, all the times he knows they would have all been killed if luck hadn't intervened, all the times he came through for Alpha and for the platoon and saved their asses. "What if they get a retarded RTO who can't establish reliable radio contact?" he says, and then, later, "Who's gonna keep Brad from getting all broody and cranky? He can't boost morale for shit, LT. He needs me on his team to keep his head on straight."

By the time he runs out of steam his ice cream is a sodden mess in his hand. Ray pitches it out and falls into brooding silence, watching sullenly as Nate stands up, tosses his own ice cream out and then goes back to order two fresh cones. 

When he returns he hands one over to Ray and sits back on the little brick wall they've been perched on. "There's no easy answer here, Ray," he says. "Believe me, I know how you feel. I've been thinking along the same lines since I heard the news."

"But you're not reenlisting."

"No, I'm not." They sit there, eating their ice cream. Nate says, "We all came through for each other in Iraq. But we've seen active service before, different Marines watching our backs, different teams and different missions, and we came through then, too. I have to believe that this will be the same. The unit… these guys," Nate trails off, his mouth quirking upward in a fond smile. "They're the most capable, resilient, adaptable Marines I've had the pleasure to serve with. They'll make it back, Ray."

"But you don't know that for certain."

Nate pauses for a moment. "No, I don't. But I do know that sometimes you have to put yourself before everyone else. It's not wrong to want your own life." He pulls out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and hands it over.

"What's that?" Ray asks as he crunches on the cone of his ice cream.

Nate smiles. "Phone tree. If anything happens to any of our guys, I want to know. So does Mike. I'm thinking there might be other retired members of the platoon who might feel the same."

He considers this for a moment, wonders if it will be enough. "I am the best goddamned RTO in the battalion."

Ray doesn't reenlist. Most days he feels only a little guilty about that. 

He has a wife and a job and friends who've never been in the military and slowly civilian life starts to feel natural. It starts to feel like a relief. He talks to Tony, and Mike and Nate and everyone who's left the Corps, and sometimes they meet-up. Eventually he stops calling Nate 'LT' and Mike 'Gunny'. He keeps the phone tree going, coordinating with family and friends and retired marines and keeps everyone up-to-date on what's happening with the unit. As much as he's able, anyway. 

It helps that he can exploit his connections and call-in favors. Every now and then he even has moments that take him back to the good times, moments that almost feel like nothing has changed at all.

"Colbert," Ray says. "Your mom wants to know if you got the cookies she sent you."

"My mother has more common fucking sense than to send me cookies."

"Okay, so maybe _I'm_ wondering if you got the cookies that _I_ sent."

"I'm hanging up, Ray."

"Yeah," Ray says to Natalie when he hangs up the phone. "He still loves me."

They'll make it back, he thinks. Ray has faith in them.


End file.
